


Fates' Rewrite

by theshipstorulethemallwrites



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Character Death, Cop Bellamy, Dreams, ER doctor Clarke, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Modern Retelling, Murder Mystery, Outdoor Sex, Police Procedural, Soulmates, Too many characters, Zeus is a DICK, all the gods - Freeform, au of two different fandoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-10-25 01:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10753890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshipstorulethemallwrites/pseuds/theshipstorulethemallwrites
Summary: Bellamy attempts to solve a murder, tries not to fall in love with his partner and dreams of a throne of bones and the taste of pomegranates





	1. Watch My Kingdom Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been in my head since I first watched the 100, it took a bit to get it right and longer to actually write. 
> 
> There are so many people I have to thank for helping me with this project: Dan for his constant support and helping me with the mythology, Art for saying that I'm going in the right direction, Jade and Nai for being so supportive of this idea when I first brought it up, the BCWC for supporting me through thick and thin and letting me figure out my way - also thank you for helping me tap in my sexy side for this fic. 
> 
> and finally [Hannah](http://bellsblake.tumblr.com) and [Clara](http://liana-fire.tumblr.com), Hannah for being such an incredible beta and Clara for creating the most amazing aesthetic. I could not have done this without either of you

“I want him back,” she cries, holding her lover on the cold, hard ground. Gods were not supposed to die. Her parents had blessed her: she, the bringer of spring, lover of the dead, was not meant to lose him. 

“Give him back to me!” she sobs. “Please, I need him.” She can feel herself fading; the people have stopped believing in them, but she doesn’t know why he is going first, and so violently at that. 

“You need him, you want him. Those are true enough. But, child, the answer to this question determines what I grant you,” a voice calls out. A woman swathed in dark robes wanders out to where she grieves, ichor dripping on the ruby red tiles of the home they had built together.

“Yes, ask me. Ask me anything! Just,  _ please _ ,” she says, face stained with tears, hands covered in her lover’s golden blood as his heart refuses to beat in time with her own. She feels empty and lost and afraid.

“Do you love him?” the woman asks, pity in her voice as she continues. “Life-granter, death-lover, do you understand what you ask? Do you love him enough to let him live again? In different ways, in different forms, with the promise that you will find each other in every life you live?”

“I lived centuries with him. I have spent decades without him, but I have always returned to him. We always find each other. How dare you question if I love him! How dare you ask me if I love the man I’ve bedded and wedded a thousand times over! Of course I love him enough!” The goddess screams, anger growing in her voice as the tears stop. 

She will live again. She will find him again and they will be together, she thinks, their blood mingling as she runs a hand through his golden hair.  It had always confused people, she being the dark-haired one and her husband being fair-haired, light.

The myths had always gotten their story wrong. 

“Well then, it has been decided. He will live, as will you, but the two of you falling in love, that I cannot promise you,” the woman says, clapping her hands, and before the goddess clasps her husband’s hand she notices the woman is Hecate, goddess of magic and her husband’s lieutenant. She does not know how to ask how she’ll remember,  _ if _ she’ll remember, but she knows that she’ll always love the dead soul beside her. A bright light blinds Persephone and Hades as the world spins on, not knowing that a strand of fate was snipped and then respun, black and red entwining as the Fates remake the story.

 

 


	2. Standing on the Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Meetings and Long Forgotten Fears

Bellamy stirs awake, sweating as he realizes that he kicked his sheets off sometime in the the middle of the night. He rubs his face and notices,with no small amount of shock, that he was crying in his sleep. As he sits up, he wonders why he feels like something vital is missing; there’s an ache in his heart that wasn’t there before. And Bellamy knows how it feels to ache with hunger, cry with hurt, but this... this longing is new and unfamiliar.  

He doesn’t like it, he decides, frowning to himself as he hears a pop in his neck from getting out of bed. He glances at his tousled, welcoming sheets and god, he wants to go back to sleep. This desire increases as he checks the time and realizes he has at least an hour before he has to leave the apartment.

Sleep sounds amazing right now, but he decides that he may as well try to get some writing done. He had a really good idea about the relationship between Patroclus and Achilles being the central relationship in the Iliad. As he uncaps a pen, he rubs a hand across his forehead and settles down to write. In what feels like no time at all, he glances at his phone, sees a few messages from his sister, and realizes that if he wants to stop for something hot to drink, he should leave now.

Holding his hot chocolate (he’s never liked coffee), he walks up to work.  He almost bumps into a blonde rubbing her arms from the cold. She looks weirdly familiar. Her hair is curled over her shoulder, barely touching her lab coat, and her stance commands respect.

“Sorry,” he mutters, quickly hurrying to the inside of the station. The near-fall means he makes it to his desk only a minute before he was meant to report in.

“Mr. Blake,” Chief Kane greets him, tone bemused but belying a sense of urgency.

“What is it, Chief?” he asks.

“Mrs. Mcintyre, would you bring Ms. Griffin in here?”

Bellamy nearly rolls his eyes; Chief has a flair for dramatics that sometimes mimics Zeus. The blonde follows Harper, one of his fellow cops, and sits across from him. As she looks at him, there’s a flash of recognition, but it soon fades.

“So what is this, Chief?” Bellamy asks yet again, drumming his fingers against his notebook. The blonde gives a long, suffering sigh.

“Seriously, Marcus,” she says, turning and glaring at Bellamy’s boss. “I have to be at the ER in half an hour. Can’t you let both of us get back to work?”

At the mention of ER, it all starts making sense: why he recognizes her, and why she’s here. She’s Clarke Griffin, the ER doctor currently in charge of the current rash of murders. She’d been the doctor to examine the first woman they’d found, and then the hospital had put her in charge of the investigation on the medical side. Her mother is also dating the Chief.

“The two of you will be working together because the case is close to getting national attention and this guy is nearing serial killer status.”

“How do we know it’s a guy?” Dr. Griffin asks just as Bellamy chimes in, “Why am I not working with Miller? We’ve been working this case for over a month.”

“Mr. Blake, I understand that you and Mr. Miller have been working this case, but at this point we need someone on the team who is not a cop.  Clarke, the killer targets young women and sexually assaults them. Doesn’t that sound like the M.O. of a male killer?”

Dr. Griffin nods, her hair obscuring her features, and Bellamy has the strangest urge to reach out and tuck it behind her ear. He doesn’t even know this girl.

The Chief leans back, nearly knocking over Bellamy’s photo of a young Octavia, and grins. Bellamy looks at him warily and Dr. Griffin glares. That glare, _wow_ , it’s a triple deluxe I-will-kill-you-and-no-one-will-find-your-body glare, a glare that Bellamy wants to learn. The Chief shivers dramatically, clearly unaffected.

“Well, Clarke, I’ll let you and Mr. Blake work out when to go over your files on this.”

The chief moves away to talk to Charles Pike, one of the oldest members of the force who is currently working on a high-profile drug cartel case.

Bellamy turns to talk to Dr. Griffin, who sits down on the chair across from him, her white coat low enough to reveal a tiny hint of her lacy undershirt. Bellamy averts his eyes; he doesn’t want to be seen gawking at the woman who will be his partner on a case that could last months.

Dr. Griffin grins at him. Then, her blue eyes flash with an emotion that Bellamy interprets as frustration as she looks at her watch.

“What is it?” he asks, drumming his fingers on the desk as he looks at her.

“My ER partner, Lydia, just texted. There is a crash and I have to go.”

Bellamy says softly, “Alright, do you want to meet on Sunday at 4 pm at the Dropship? It’s a bar on 8th and Jefferson.”

Dr. Griffin nods, patting her pockets as she rises. She pauses before holding out her hand for him to shake. But instead, Bellamy does something completely out of character. Bending across the desk, he kisses her hand.

“Later, Princess.”

He stands up. A look of something, shock maybe, crosses Dr. Griffin’s face, and her cheeks turn the prettiest shade of pink.

“Later,” she whispers, turning around to leave. He spots a blue sticky note on the other side of his desk, standing out against the otherwise dark wood. It’s her number, and he quickly plugs it into his phone. He shoots a text with the words Bellamy Blake and his number and returns to his paperwork. As he finishes writing the drunk driver report he’d written up, Miller walks over.

“So Blake, I guess the two of us aren’t working on this case anymore?”

“Nope, sadly. But it was nice to work with you again.”

Miller gives him a fist bumps and grins.

“It was. Now I’m working with Monroe on something.”

Bellamy shakes his head. Both Monroe and Miller are constant lovesick gossips, and he imagines that the stakeout chatter would be disgusting.

Miller lets out a chuckle, slapping his hand against Bellamy’s shoulder.

“Oh, you’re just jealous you don’t have anyone. I’ll see you Sunday at mine and Eric’s place for game night.”

There’s no room for argument in Miller’s tone, so Bellamy simply nods, moving to review his files on the case he is now working on with Dr. Griffin. He wants to have all the information and possible angles when they meet, so he sighs, taking a swig of his now lukewarm hot chocolate.

The day drags on, slowly reaching 5 o’clock, and all Bellamy wants is to put a frozen pasta dish in the microwave and watch basketball. Harper tries convincing him to go out with the rest of gang, offering him the blackmail material of her and Monty singing karaoke if he would buy them shots. It’s a very tempting offer, but the need for sleep overtakes all else.

He returns to his basically empty apartment, passing the elderly lady across the hall who calls out a hello as he struggles to open his door. He flips on the light switch and is suddenly struck by how purely functional the apartment is; it’s lived in, but not homey. He settles down, turning on his very small flat screen and watching the game. It’s the Golden State Warriors absolutely dominating the Cleveland Cavaliers and he grins, gulping down some of his beer as he watches some beautiful basketball. The game goes by quickly, such a contrast from work today except for the meeting with Dr. Griffin. He glances at the time as the final minutes of the game begin winding down and play starts to slow. It’s around 8 pm and all he wants to do is go bed. He fully anticipates the massive amount of teasing he will get if this gets out, how early he went to bed, but as the post-game coverage starts he finds himself fading. His dreams start with a woman.

 

* * *

 

Persephone falls, enveloped by tendrils of darkness that muffle her cries and cushion her fall. Her hair is windswept, her lacy dress is in tatters, and her eyes adjust to the sudden darkness. Her screams echo through the canyon and she knows as she shivers that she is not on earth. Where is she? she wonders as she looks around. The room feels at least 10 degrees colder than home, and she’s not dressed warmly. She looks up, hearing something, but she only sees a throne of bones.

A throne of bones…

The Underworld. The curse words that cross her mind would make even Ares blush. She doesn’t know how she got here, though she knows why. As much as her parents hated the most deadly of the deathless gods, she got along quite well with the Lord of the Dead. They were both equally intelligent and she knew he felt trapped in this role. But kidnapping her? She shakes her head, dark strands of hair falling in front of her eyes as she scans the throne room again, observing how there are several different shades of black and red and how the torches lining the edges of the room are accented with rubies.

“Hello,” she calls out, voice shaking as she speaks, the sound of her high voice echoing, bouncing off the walls, and she begins to tremble.

“Hello.”

She tries again, louder this time, rubbing her arms in an attempt to stay a little warmer. She waits, letting the sound echo and then fade. It takes what feels like hours and the next time she speaks her question comes out as a strangled scream.

“Anyone here?”

She scans the room again, taking in the tall granite columns, the glittering carpet and the three diverging pathways; this is where the Lord of the Dead makes his judgments. Then she hears a rustle, shattering the sense of calm she felt taking over. She spins around, facing the the furthest opening, and she sees a man shrouded in shadow.

He steps forward, blonde hair bright  in contrast to the dark robes swathing his body, flowing around his legs and sleeveless. As she eyes him, Hades stands a respectful distance away and waits for her to speak. To both of their surprise, her first words aren’t a demand to return her home. Instead she asks the question that popped into her head the minute she saw him.

“How are you not cold?” she asks, continuing to rub her arms. He frowns at her, his eyes sweeping over her body and she falters, a full body shiver running through her body at the fierceness of his gaze. No man has ever looked at her like that before, with desperation barely concealed in his eyes. She doesn’t know where the desperation comes from, but she preens a little. She feels good, she feels _worthy_ , but then she realizes that he hasn’t answered her question and even though she feels like he’s setting her on fire, she’s still cold.

He snaps his finger, and a shawl settles on Persephone’s shoulders. She looks at him in surprise; she didn’t think he would care enough to do that.

“How did you do that?” she demands, wrapping the red shawl arounder her tighter even as the air grows warmer.

“Every god has incredible power in their own sphere. Even though you can make things beautiful,” he pauses, looking at her almost shyly before continuing, “you don’t have a realm yet, so you don’t have your full powers.”

She frowns; that doesn’t sound right. That would mean she’d never actually get the sort of power the rest of her family has, because her mother will never let her take over any part of her dominion. She sighs, recalling that even her mother, the great earthly goddess, was jealous of her natural affinity with flowers. She flicks her wrist and snaps her fingers, careful not to make a sound. She turns to Hades with a wide smile on her face as a red rose blooms, shooting upright in the middle of the floor. He is staring at her with barely disguised awe, and possibly horror.

“That should not happen, Persephone.” He gestures to the floor, the thorns sticking out of the plant, the rose gleaming with potential and danger.

“Why not?” she asks, observing his tone and drawing into herself. He bends down and taps the rose lightly, but nothing happens.

He runs a finger along the stem, ichor dripping against the thorns, and still nothing happens. He stands up, looking puzzled and nervous.

“Hades?” she asks again, her voice taking on a plaintive note as he steps into her space.  

“Why did it not die?” he asks, shaken as he grips her hand, “Everything I touch that is living dies.”

She looks at him again, really seeing how shaken he is. She yanks her hand out of his grip, rubbing her wrist gently. He frowns, cursing, and she presses her hand against his chest. He lets it rest there, looking at her the way her mother looks at a seedling that has finally sprouted. There is silence and it feels incredibly intimate and oh, how that scares her. He finally speaks, voice firm and almost harsh.

“Do that again.” he requests, and she does, this time causing a purple rhododendron to grow right in between them. He taps it again. Nothing. He runs his already cut finger up and down the stem, letting his ichor drip over the flower. Nothing.

He frowns, motioning her to bloom yet another flower. This time she tries a white calla lily, and lo and behold it appears. He picks it up this time, holding it a death grip for a few seconds before releasing it. It falls to the ground, still blooming and beautiful, and she doesn’t understand why he looks as if he is about to scream. He walks away from her, disappearing into the darkness through the passage from where he arrived, his very walk agitated and tense.

She looks at the three flowers, out of place yet beautiful, and she finally notices the power humming against her bones, flowing through her like water. She’s alone now and she’s finally stopped shivering but she has no idea where to go.

She begins wandering through the halls, going through the same passage the Lord of the Underworld passed through, and she finally sees his kingdom. It’s honestly not what she expected, but she’s terrified. The men and women all remain a respectful distance away from her which she just figures is a byproduct of her goddesshood, though she has no idea how they would know who she is. She’s nervous and surprised.

Oh, she wants to go home. It’s dark and she’s scared of herself now. She made Hades look like he didn’t understand his realm or her.

“Mom,” she shouts, tears blurring her vision.

“Mom. I want to go home.”

“ _Mom_!”

She sinks to her knees, banging her fists against the cold granite. She feels breathless and incredibly dramatic, but she wants to go home,  back to the the trees and the sunshine. But she feels the power surging through her veins and more than anything that terrifies her. She tries, desperately, to tamper it down and succeeds, but she knows that it won’t last.


	3. The Song Has Not Been Sung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> banter, bonding time and mystery

Hades strides into the throne room, loose robes swirling around him like the shadows that seem to follow him as he moves. Persephone looks up from where she’s tending to her makeshift garden. All of the others in Hades’s kingdom have taken to avoiding this place, and so it has become where she spends much of her time. She thinks that they are all uncomfortable with the life that blooms inside this area. It’s the far corner of the throne room, with roses twisting around the ramparts and jasmines shooting up between the red tile. It’s quite pretty in Persephone’s mind, though she doesn’t say anything. She remembers the one time a few days ago when she’d accidently caused white roses to hang right over Hades’s throne. He’d been almost as mad as she ever remembers him being.The only time she’s seen him angrier was when he had found her curled up on the floor, spent with screams and tears, the morning after she’d arrived in this world. He’d been so angry she’d seen spit fly from his mouth. His anger, both times, hadn’t scared her. It was not like Zeus’s anger in that regard. 

She’s torn from her thoughts when Hades asks her the same question he’s asked every meal: “Persephone, will you join me for dinner?”

Barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she gives her standard answer. “I will sit with you, my lord. But I will not eat.”

Hades doesn’t have the same need to keep decorum that she does, because he actually rolls his eyes at her, and she gapes at him as he begins the now familiar argument.

“None of the food will keep you here. I don’t know what lies the dick with the lightning has told you, but I’m not a fae.”

She can barely contain a laugh at his name for Zeus. Names have power, after all. And even the smallest godlings know of the rivalry between Zeus and his brother who lives below. No doubt he is trying to figure out what Hades is doing to her. Which, sadly, is nothing. 

She sighs; her stomach has been protesting loudly against the lack of food, and she knows that what’s she is doing with flowers is depriving her of energy that could be used to keep up her strike for longer. She reaches up and plucks a white rose from where it hangs. Hades sees her walking towards him and breaks into a grin. He breathes out a soft, “Finally.” 

But that is before he notices the flower in her hand.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he says, holding up his hands as she reaches only an inch away from him. Persephone realizes that this is the closest they’ve been to each other since that first day when he’d ordered her to discover her power. She laughs, stepping closer to him still, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. 

“You wear the flower in your hair and I dine with you. If you don’t wear it, then I don’t join you,” she states, and in response to her dare the god’s eyes widen. He takes a step back and she smiles even more, showing her teeth. 

“Aw, is the big bad god of Death scared of a tiny flower?” she asks, and laughs the hardest she’s ever laughed in her entire existence when he nods. 

But then he sighs, his eyes trailing over the clothes that hang on her frame. They both know that she’s gotten thin quicker than she ever should have. 

“Fine,” he whispers, grabbing the flower from her hand and sticking it in his unruly nest of curls. She stares at him, and he looks back at her, and she feels as though he’s seeing her unlike any other soul, alive or dead. He turns and walks out and she follows, looking around at the halls and the trinkets that seem to be piled up in random places. Hades pushes open two massive wooden double doors, and she gasps at the sight before her. It’s a dining table that seems to be made of diamonds, and she’s suddenly reminded of the fact that the god gesturing for her to take a seat at one end of the table is also the god of precious metals. 

As she watches him sit down, she feels the chair she’s sitting in, oddly comfortable with its lush pillow, pushed forward. She turns to look behind her but no one is there, and she turns back to the man across from her as he chuckles at her confusion.

“The spirits in my realm that are bound to serve me are called Alarie,” He explains, snapping his fingers once. She feels the air around her tighten as several different dishes appear in front of them. She nods once, glancing at her gold goblet and watching it fill with red wine. Being the daughter of Demeter, Persephone knows her wine, so she swirls it around in the goblet a few times before taking a sip and nearly moaning in delight. 

“This wine comes from the island of Lemnos,” She observes, adding, “I’d know its distinctive bay leaf flavor anywhere.” 

“It’s one of your favorites?” Hades asks her as he starts cutting into his meat. She nods as she gazes at all the food laid out in front of her. Gods, it all looks so good. She moves toward a purple fruit that she has never seen before; however, Hades immediately stops her. 

“Persephone, that  fruit is the one food that would force you to stay here,” He explains, frowning at her as his brows furrow in thought.

She nods once, moving towards the delicious looking meat and potatoes. Once she’s finished filling her plate, she glances up to see Hades still gazing at her.

“What?” she demands, her voice louder than she’d meant it to be, but his stare was incredibly unnerving. It’s rare; she knows from living on Olympus that gods never grant other gods more than a simple cursory glance when speaking. 

He moves to say something - she thinks it could be an apology - but he shuts his mouth and continues eating. The silence isn’t exactly comfortable, and she knows  there is something he is not saying. 

When she looks up to grab some more food, green beans this time, she notices that he seems to be glaring at the fruit she’d almost grabbed. 

“What?” she asks again, quieter this time. She wants to know what seems to be eating him. 

He glances at her, taking in her demeanor and the way she’s looking at him with such curiosity.  He sighs, drowning his entire glass of wine in one swallow before he begins.

“I’ve had several other gods down here. Hermes most of all, as he often stays here after a particularly bloody battle between the mortals. None of them have ever reached for that fruit. I do not know what makes that fruit different from the rest of the food I’ve eaten, but when I was first forced down here, it was the first food I ever ate. Each seed eaten means another month you stay  here.” He sighs heavily. “I ate the entire thing, as has become the custom of the rulers of this realm. Thanatos, the true god of death, was one of the few gods that existed in this realm before I became its ruler, and he explained to me that the fruit that sits before you is the calling card of the first lord of this realm.  Ever since the inception of the Underworld, it has been tied to the prosperity of its rulers.”

Persephone can barely contain her horror. If she was drawn to that fruit, does that mean the Underworld wants her as its queen? No, that can’t be right. Hades is looking at her with such worry, and she wants to leave. She suddenly feels trapped in a way that she only ever felt around Zeus. 

She pushes back her chair and runs out of the room. She can hear Hades calling out her name, and  even as she slams the doors shut behind her she can hear them being wrenched open again. Hades quickly catches up to her and they end up in the throne room, where this all began. 

“Did you know?” she demands of him, tears beginning to fall as she looks at the room again, noticing that the beginnings of another throne seem to be springing up beside Hades’s. That’s a dangerous implication, and she wants to find the Fates and force them to rewrite the story she’s in. It’s not that she wouldn’t accept her role eventually, but this... this is an area even the Fates should not meddle in. 

“Know what?” Hades responds, the lines of his face tightening as he notices how badly she’s shaking.

“That  _ your _ realm wants  _ me _ for its queen!” she explodes, screaming at him as he steps closer to her. The look that crosses his face is an odd mixture of shock and pain as he shakes his head. The flower that she’d forced him to wear falls out, and she feels herself breaking. 

“You didn’t, did you?” she asks, quieter, the anger fading from her body as he looks at her with such sorrow.

“I’d hoped,” he whispers, so quietly that she can barely hear him, and his eyes shut like the admission of his desires will get him killed. And just like that, her heart starts beating  faster than she’d thought possible. 

“Really?” she breathes. They’ve slowly moved toward each other in the silence that followed his confession. 

“Yes. You were drawn to the shadows for some reason, and it fascinated me that you never seemed afraid of  _ me _ . You were always the only one, besides my sweet sister, who dared to engage in conversation with me whenever I was allowed upon the seat of the gods. So of course, when something pulled you down here, I hoped you’d stay. And of course, when I realized you had powers down here that defied reason, I hoped that the universe was giving me a sign that you were my  _ equal _ in power as well as wit.” 

He sighs, finally reaching out to touch her, and the fire that burns in his eyes threatens to swallow her whole. She lets him grasp her hand, and he strokes it once before taking a deep breath and continuing. 

“That’s the reason I told you about the fruit. I wanted you to stay here and be my queen out of your own free will. Not some force pushing you towards me.” 

He lets go of her hand and waves his hands  in a complex motion, causing  a door to appear in front of his throne. She looks at him in utter confusion. 

“Persephone, if you step through that door, you will find yourself in the grove of trees where you disappeared from. There is no reason for you to stay here any longer.” 

She gapes at him. Gods, how is the god of death the most gentle one she’s ever met? Hades had just offered her everything she’d dreamed of in the darkest corners of her mind, and here he was, letting her go home. Or, at least what she used to call home; she’s unsure now if she’d fit up there after everything. She shakes her head and steps towards him. 

“Do you have this fruit with you?” she asks him, and now it’s his turn to look how she just felt. He doesn’t speak, just nods as he slips his hand into the front of his robes and pulls out the red fruit. 

“Do you have a knife?” she asks, and he snaps his fingers and a knife appears stuck in the floor in front of her. She lifts it and cuts open the fruit. The seeds and juices explode in her hand, much of it dripping down onto the floor. 

She steps closer to him, and she wants to memorize the way he is looking at her, like she’s the loveliest thing he has ever seen. 

“We are going to see what happens, but I accept your offer to be called Queen of the Underworld,” she says, popping two seeds into her mouth and licking the juices from her fingers. He looks like he wants to eat her alive, but he doesn’t kiss her (though she would’ve let him). What he does do leaves her speechless. He reaches toward her open palm, eats two seeds and licks the juices from his fingertips, and then he does the only thing that could surprise her. 

He bows to her. 

 

* * *

 

Bellamy jolts awake to a touch on his shoulder. Before he turns to face whoever it is, he raises  a forearm up to his mouth to quiet his yawn. He rubs his eyes as he notices a taste in his mouth, one that isn’t at all similar to the beer he has been drinking. Odd.

He normally doesn’t fall asleep at bars, but he’d gotten called in in the middle of night as something had gone wrong with Pike’s drug bust. They had managed to get it under control through the use of several unorthodox methods, and as a result, in addition to being out most of the night, he and Pike had received a stern dressing down from Chief. He had almost called Dr. Griffin to reschedule, but with how unpredictable the ER is, he had decided against it. He turns around and sees Dr. Griffin, standing before him dressed in jeans and a green tank top. 

“Hi, long day?” she asks, settling into the seat next to him. He nods, desperately wanting to slump down on the bar counter as Dr. Griffin flags down the bartender. 

“I’ll have a whiskey sour, please.” 

The bartender nods, glancing at the empty bottle in front of Bellamy and asking, “Refill?”

“Yes. Thanks, G.”

The whiskey sour  arrives a few seconds later.. It’s a reason Bellamy likes the Dropship: the service is  quick, and for a bar, the conversation never feels too loud. It’s also his customary hangout, as a lot of lower level criminals often come to drink here. (Chief would have his head if he realized that he was actually friendly with some of those customers.) 

Dr. Griffin grabs the whiskey sour and drowns it quickly.

“Long day?” he asks, smirking a little as he sits up straighter.

She nods, brushing her hair back behind her ear before she grabs her briefcase. 

“We had a two car pileup occur this afternoon, and that was on top of this morning, when I had to put a cast on the broken leg of a 7 year old girl. So, yes, a very long day.”

Bellamy quickly catches on and signals to G that they need a refill. She slides Dr. Griffin the new glass, and then Bellamy gestures over to the corner where a booth has just been cleared out. 

“Are we talking about the case now?” Dr. Griffin asks, eyes alight with excitement as they move over to the table.

Bellamy does a double take at her tone, asking doubtfully, “Are you seriously excited about a murder case?”

Dr. Griffin laughs, an airy chuckle that makes Bellamy raise an eyebrow at her. 

“Yes, okay. I am. I read a lot of murder mysteries as a kid.”

“Oh, that explains it.” 

Bellamy slides into the booth, setting his briefcase on the table just as Dr. Griffin does the same. 

“First of all, Mr. Blake, please call me Clarke. We’re partners, after all, and we have no idea if this case will be wrapped up quickly or take several months.”

Bellamy shoots Clarke a smirk as he says, “Well then, you must call me Bellamy.” And,” he adds, swirling his beer around, “this case seems like it will take awhile, considering that Miller and I were working on it for several weeks and all we have are several dead girls.”

“Well, let’s put our heads together then.” Clarke  opens up her briefcase and pulls out several files. 

“The first girl murdered was named Callie Isto,” Clarke reads off, opening the case file with the date of 9/21/16. “She was blonde and had no family. She was nineteen years old. Wow, that’s young!”  

“Most of them are that young,” Bellamy admits sadly as he leans towards Clarke to look at the photos from the autopsy. 

Clarke sighs, pulling out the next oldest case file from 10/12/16. She frowns, looking between the two dates, brow furrowed. 

“How did you realize that this was a serial killer if the dates are spaced out enough that he seems to be making an effort to stay off of the police rader?”

“Well, the girls were raped and then killed, and once we noticed Ms. Ele, we realized that this had to be the same guy. So we starting flagging murders that came in, and once Ms. Io came in we confirmed that it was a full-blown serial killer.”

“Makes sense.” Clarke nods at him before returning to all the case files. 

They spend the next two hours poring over the details of the murdered girls, trying to find a connection that neither of them had noticed before. When they can’t find anything, Bellamy goes to grab them water from the bar, and when he returns he finds Clarke looking like she’s just figured something out. 

“What did you just realize, Clarke?” he asks her, passing her the water. She takes a sip before nodding at him, her blonde hair falling in front of her face. She pushes it back as she pulls out a pad of paper and a pen. 

“So all of these girls have little or no family. They all live alone, and they are all in their early twenties or late teens. This guy is also picking objectively beautiful girls, as I see here that you and Mr. Miller did some digging and found that many of girls were named for their school’s homecoming courts or nominated for prom queen.”

“So?” Bellamy asks her. This is all information he himself had compiled; he knew this already. 

“So, this monster is targeting, raping, and then murdering similar types of girls. Why don’t we look at the girls and their files together at the same time instead of individually?”

Bellamy nods, feeling a little sheepish as he spreads out the case files of the six dead girls. Clarke looks at the three oldest victims, while Bellamy looks at the newest ones, including the one who had shown up the day he  met Clarke for the first time. 

“What’s this?” he hears Clarke mutter, and he glances over to see her studying one of the photos from the autopsy. 

“What?” he asks. 

She reaches out to the photo he’s currently looking at, a Ms. Dana Golde, and taps a mark seemingly carved into her skin on her breast.

“That,” she says, looking at the other photos spread out in front of her. 

“It’s on all of them,” Clarke says slowly, angrily, and Bellamy scrambles to grab all three of the photos he is looking at. 

“It’s his calling card,” she hisses , sounding very dangerous as she continues. “He carves a mark into their skin. That bastard.”

Bellamy can only nod in agreement. This asshole had already raped and killed these girls, but then he also had to  _ mutilate _ them. He studies the pictures a little more, bending down close to look at the photo of Ms. Leah Swanson, and that’s when he notices it.

“Holy shit,” he swears, nearly spilling his water in shock. That’s a fucking lightning bolt carved into the breasts of all of the girls. A precise, shockingly well done carving with the blood still drying. 

“It’s the last thing he does,” Bellamy says, looking at Clarke as he clenches his hands into  fists. 

“What?” Clarke demands, blue eyes bright as she looks at him.

“He carves a lightning bolt into the left breast of all of the girls he kills right after he’s raped and murdered them.”

Clarke stares at him in shock, hands twisting around as she tries to figure out what that means.

“But...” She pauses, trying to figure what to say next. “Isn’t the lightning bolt commonly associated with Zeus?”

Bellamy nods, pushing his glasses up from where they’ve fallen to the bridge of his nose.  Clarke laughs, almost as though she knows he’s about to go into lecture mode. 

“Yes, the lightning bolt is Zeus’s primary weapon. It was crafted by the Cyclops during the battle with Zeus’s father, Kronos. The fact that this guy is idolizing and almost mimicking Zeus means that the way he kills makes a lot more sense. The women whom Zeus had sex with mostly ended up dead in really gruesome ways, and Zeus himself is quite an asshole.”

Clarke lets out another loud laugh that gets some glances from the last few people who remain in the bar. 

“Oh, we’ve been here awhile,” she comments, finishing her water. Bellamy inclines his head toward her, noticing just now just how close they are. He can see that her eyes have flecks of green in them and oh, that’s an interesting detail. 

“We have,” he agrees,  “but we also broke the entire case open with what we just realized.”

Clarke grins at him. 

“We make a pretty good team, don’t we?” 

Bellamy ducks his head at her declaration, pink coloring his cheeks as he returns her smile. 

Clarke begins packing her stuff and Bellamy does the same, hastily scribbling the words “lightning bolt” and “Zeus” at the corner of Ms. Swan’s folder before shoving the folders back into his briefcase. 

“Does Monday, here at the same time, work for you?” he asks her as she reaches down to grab her purse from where it’s been sitting beside her. 

“Yes,” Clarke confirms, pausing to look at him as they both slide out of the booth and stand up for the first time in several hours.    
“Well, I’ll see you Monday,” Bellamy says, shuffling his feet as he reaches his hand out for her to shake. She shakes her head a bit but still shakes his hand, and he feels a zing run up and down his body. She turns to leave and Bellamy is left staring at her, looking at his hand in bemusement before turning and waving goodbye to the bartender, now Anya, the owner of the Dropship. He walks into the chilly January air and wraps his jacket tighter around him as he walks the few blocks home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments help me write faster and with this we're officially done with the prior written chapters

**Author's Note:**

> This fic goes out to so many people but most of all to all of us who have dared to reach the stars
> 
>  
> 
> find me on[tumblr](http://the-ships-to-rule-them-all.tumblr.com) \- I'd love to hear any and all of your thoughts


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